Neurotic
by Her Name Is Erika
Summary: Quinn Pensky is sure she’s in a state of neurosis – a bundle of smart, genius nerves. She gives up asking him to leave, because she really wants him to stay. QuinnLogan.


**A/N: I love writing in the abstract style, and I had a blast doing it with one of my lighter pieces, The Prince & The Princess. So, I'm doing this is that style, going into darker themes. I thought I shut off the warped part of my brain until the song that inspired me re-opened it again. So, I hope you're all ready while I give you a tour of the dark territory of my brains that spouts angst for all you people to read. Oh, this is Lock & Key with a different title. This is probably my first borderline M story…ever. The bracketed stuff is everything runs through the person's head.**

**WARNING: Sexual themes, and plenty of F bombs and other words. If you can handle it, read on, but don't say I didn't warn you if you feel otherwise.**

**Disclaimer: Me? Own Zoey 101? Oh, you flatter and slay me all at the same time.**

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**Neurotic**

"_How did we get here?  
__I used to know you so well…"  
_– _Decode (Paramore)_

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**i. **

He avoids three things: his wife, brunette prostitutes, and the aspirin that robs him of the relaxing drunken haze.

Logan Reese avoids the brunette prostitutes as pretty and delicate as they are.

Instead, he hires a nice blonde whore who will let him take control. The fucking blonde slut will fall under his control, giving him a feeling of dominance. He's pretty power mad (insane), the beginnings of an orgasm making him drunk with ecstasy.

(He's literally drunk. Tsk, tsk. Hollywood's corner whores are losing it.)

The world's prying eyes are drilling into him (my God, are there more?) in every direction. But he's Superman. Bullets bounce off of him and he'll smirk like he's hot shit.

Brunette prostitutes make him furious.

Angry to the point of seeing white (polka) dots of hot rage with years of remaining leftover love with a lustful twinge that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Logan Reese ignores the brunette prostitutes, lest she grow long, wavy hair and magically sprouts those haunting (_leavemealone_) glasses.

If Logan sees the prostitute with a hula hoop, he'll wring her pretty neck with it.

**ii.**

"We're all a bunch of fuck-ups, dude."

His companion laughs almost sounding bitter and knowingly like he almost sees this unraveling while blinded (stupid UV rays) by their boarding school's sunny ambience. After all, Chase Matthews is a man with two hearts held tightly in his grasp, and Logan is a man that has two hearts as well – one he wants to let go of, and run over repeatedly and the other is held so tightly with death grip like strength.

(So much for delicate and pretty. It's a beating, bloody – so much blood – mess, running between his fingers. Pool's getting bigger, he may drown.)

Meeting glazed over green eyes, Chase's laughter recedes and there's a shadow of a smile on his face and Logan looks at him while taking another long swig of beer. He feels the alcohol rushing fast through his bloodstream, coating his veins with that false sense of calm.

But he _is_ calm. And he's in a totally relaxed state of (lost) mind.

Oh, Logan can be. He fucking wants to be.

"Yeah, that may be the case, Logan. But we're also human. Humans make mistakes and most of the time, we regret them, and sometimes, we don't," Chase says, making Logan's eyebrows go up in general intrigue. For once, he'll be the one staring, the one looking into those emotional tabloids, reading about a life almost as fucked up as his. "I don't regret it at all."

Logan smirks, raising his half empty (he's a half empty sort of guy) beer bottle in the air, as if in a celebratory mood and making in a drunken, slurred together toast (_wastedplastereddrunkoffmyass_).

"Congrats, dude. Banging Lola while Zoey's playing the oblivious wife, and knows nothing."

Chase's only response to that is to pray that the bottle is somehow endless, and he keeps drinking.

(He sleeps with the star of his screenplays last night. Shhh.)

**iii. **

He marries Annie because his father says so.

(Oh, you're spineless. Spineless, spineless, spineless.)

Logan marries Annie to stick it to Quinn good, hoping, just slightly hoping that the beakers and the research all (literally) blow up and she crawls back to him.

Annie is the daughter of Malcolm's partner in business, and she's hot with stunning blue eyes until he finds the dark brunette roots peak out from the blonde tresses, she's known for all over the media when she models. The paparazzi feed off of them like leeches, their camera flashes all over them.

And now, he's married to the thing he tries to avoid.

The brunette roots make Logan's blood boil, makes him see red with those polka dots of white come into view.

The bitch lies to him.

Malcolm puts the gun to his head, and he says _I do_ to the woman he's mere seconds from strangling.

("I'll kill you, Annie.")

Annie's standing there, deer in the headlight look, towel wrapped around her body with water glistening like it's supposed to entice him to a good, hard long fuck – one he actually enjoys, instead of being rough, pounding into her hard just to cause her some kind of pain. Pain he's ready to transfer and spread around like an STD.

(Annie isn't a screamer. Aw, being the dutiful wife, are we, whore?)

"Honey, what's wrong?"

Her now brown hair (_ohgodchestnutbrownfuckingchestnut_) is sticking to her wet body, and Logan's going crazy, going off of a cliff into a sea of murky infidelity with the owner of the heart, he's still holding onto, bloody mess and all. He's ankle deep in imaginary, dark, thick blood.

Malcolm puts that beautiful, shiny and gleaming revolver to his temple.

(Logan is ready to pull the trigger and watch his own blood splatter all over their painfully white walls.)

**iv.**

Quinn Pensky is sure she's in a state of neurosis – a bundle of smart, genius nerves.

Her footsteps are slow, her footwear tapping against the wooden floor of the little condo she shares with her fiancée. The place is deathly quiet and the creaks are so sharp and so loud that it makes her cringe and wonder why she doesn't fall through the floor, door below. Sighing from her job as a clinical psychiatrist (she almost about to be on the _receiving_ end), Quinn clicks on the light to rid of the walls of the dark, oddly patterned shadows.

(Quinn must been wearing shadow attractant – too many encounters to actually process.)

Quinn (dangerously close to _Reese_) loves her fiancé, Daniel who is a budding neurologist, and helps her get over (liar, liar) the relationship that lingers. Dropping her keys on the little counter, Quinn is nearly startled when she meets a figure which could only be seen by yet another shadow. Her face pales and she almost jumps out of her skin, and places a hand to her racing heart.

"Danny," she breathes, like her breath has been stolen by a ridiculously, outright handsome thief. Grateful for the normal pace and just being home, a small smile reaches her glossed lips. "When did you get home? I thought the hospital needed you for a scheduled surgery."

"Turns out they didn't need me after all, so I can spend time with you. Is that great or what?" Danny explains, and grins, his eyes sparkling happily. He presses his lips to hers in a quick kiss, before it's over and Quinn is reciting a slew of prayers that will (hopefully) reach the ears of some deity.

_Any_ deity.

"Yes. It's wonderful," she softly replies, finding that meeting his gaze an emotional, psychological chore.

It's all a meticulous plan to keep her little heart under a lock-and-key system.

(She'll keep changing the locks to stay sane and match the _outward_ rationale.)

Quinn loves Danny enough to say yes to his proposal of marriage.

Quinn loves Danny enough to utter fruitless, I-love-you's, and plant kisses on him when they're empty. Why should the past hold her back when they mutually tear into each other? Why should all of the feelings of the past manifest itself when they mutually wound each other, words cutting like knives, blood splatter in messy, disoriented (like she is – and he is hiding) disarray?

Because he never leaves, like the stubborn, infuriating person he is.

Quinn doesn't love Danny enough to grant him to the key to her heart, behind the locks.

(But Logan Reese breaks in like a thief, and Quinn gives up asking him to leave, because she really wants him to stay.)

**v.**

She's grabbing his arm, demanding a reason.

Her blue eyes are overflowing with tears, her voice loud and pleading. Annie just wants a reason, any reason. Is she not a good wife? Does she not satisfy him enough? Does she repulse Logan so much that when she buys new lingerie he merely grunts in reply after sex, holing himself up in his study? Is she so significant that Logan won't look at her twice?

(He's dreaming about Quinn infinitely, and the soft _Quinn_ moan is a dead giveaway.)

He's annoyed, and prying his arm away from Annie.

Her eyes are sparkling from the tears, black mascara running tracks down her cheeks.

Annie is almost astounded by her husband's gall, and his audacity to stand there with a blank, unresponsive gaze like everything's okay.

With her voice broken, she questions the one question that has piqued remotely any response or intrinsic interest at all.

"Why don't you love me, Logan?"

"Because," a smirk graces his handsome features, and he laughs, empty, almost borderline cruel. " – I can't feel something that doesn't exist."

But faking it is just as good. He really does float his boat (before Quinn appears and rocks it).

(Where's his fucking Oscar?)

**vi. **

Quinn remembers her first time – her first encounter with anything remotely related to sex.

It's Senior Prom, and she's eighteen. He's kissing her so fervently, and her manicured fingers entangle themselves in his curls. The skinny spaghetti strap falls loosely around her shoulders. Moans are being set free, bouncing off the walls and producing an echo in surround sound. The silky purple fabric pools around her ankles, and there's a flurry of emotions.

A flurry of clothes are flying around, and there's a lot of touching, delicate biting, rough kissing, moans and sounds that sounds like a sympathy if played back together. In the flurry, and pleasure that totally outweighs the initial of sting of her virginity being gone, she can remember one article clothing that will stay (it's engraved) with her.

The sheer red lacy bra, Logan takes his sweet time getting off because he wants to savour this, and he does (slowly, unlatching…hook by hook).

Quinn never puts that bra on again when she's engaged in love-making. Her bra colour varies, but the night before, her bra is a solid white because sex with Daniel is somewhat satisfying but safe. The engagement ring leave a tan line because she breaks down while saying their I do's. Logan gives up on wearing the wedding band, merely wearing it to pacify the media. Fucking vultures.

(She's not ready to be Mrs. Quinn DeLuca – she'd rather be Quinn _Pensky_.)

With Logan, it's dangerous because they could go down together. It's dangerous, the adrenaline rush giving Quinn a high she's not supposed to enjoy and indulge in.

"I missed you."

"I know."

"I find this being sheer luck, Logan. I'm not in a celebratory mood, but that's it. "

"I know that. Annie's my little puppet. She'll listen to whatever I tell her, because without me, she's merely a model floating around. Hollywood would chew her up and spit her back out. Every guy in America jacks off to her. They're allowed to. I don't care. And besides, she's not tied to me anymore. Dear ol' Dad must be having a heart attack. Oh well."

"Is this not bothersome to you at all?"

Reaching out, his hand strokes her cheek, softly like a porcelain doll that he never wants to crack.

"No," Quinn catches the nostalgic genuine smile, he reserves for her still. "And you know it doesn't bother you either."

All she can do is stare at her shoes before meeting his gaze, face becoming the same shade as her bra.

"So, what am I? Your mistress?"

"No, you're my Quinn," he says, voice soft, lips just grazing the corner of her mouth. "Annie is my soon-to-be, ex-wife. We're separated."

"I see."

Logan's eyes catch the bright red sheer lace, and smirks. All that's left is the backseat of a car with the windows all fogged up from the stream while her slender hand slides down, his name ready to exit her lips when she reaches her climax.

(He'll improvise – and enjoy it much, and Quinn doesn't mind that. He can _really_ stay after all.)

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**A/N: Okay, so this was angst-filled for the most part. I actually enjoyed writing that. The only person I actually put in was Chase because I had to have my piece of Chola/Choey balance, so that was my reasoning. I'm not overly excited, but for the most part I'm pretty proud of it. It's four in the morning, and I'm finally finished with putting out all the new stuff I was determined to for the time being. It's supposed to be choppy and fragmented, so yeah…just needed to clear that up. **

**Review with more than just "cool" or "update". I hate that, and it will irritate me to no end if you do this. This piece was Quogan flangst of sorts, ha. Okay, sleep time. Excuse errors. Brain is mush.**

**-Erika**


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